Grand Moff Tarkin's Proposition
by Quillian
Summary: One shot, taking place in Kenya Starflight's Reborn cycle!  A good reason why Grand Moffs and Bakuran wine just don't mix...


**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own _Star Wars_, etc.; George Lucas does.  
**SPECIAL DISCLAIMER:** The "Reborn" cycle is an amazing collection of AU stories by **Kenya Starflight**; if you read that first, then this should make more sense.

**SUMMARY:** I was reading "Experience," by Kenya Starflight, and got this idea in my head. She gave me permission to write this, and so I did! Thanks, KS!  
**WARNING:** Rated PG-13 (T) for some _slight_ lewdness! You've been warned! _(Come on, you've probably seen much worse on _The Simpsons _and other daytime television programs!)_

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"Grand Moff Tarkin's Proposition,"_**

_By Quillian_

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"…His mouth quirked in a grin as he recalled the night over three years ago when Madam Grand Admiral Olie had decked Grand Moff Tarkin after he'd overindulged on Bakuran wine and lewdly propositioned her."_ –Kenya Starflight, "Experience"

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OVER THREE YEARS BEFORE THE EVENTS OF EPISODE IV…_

It was immediately after a heavy banquet, and the Grand Moffs were all having a meeting.

In other words, it was total bedlam.

Two Moffs were engaged in a screaming match over which had the more powerful forces at their disposal, an older male Moff was trying to woo a female Moff who was at least half his own age, another Moff was picking at his teeth in a not-so-discrete manner, and yet another Moff was doodling with his laser pen on the zekkwood table…

Piett shook his head. A mere ensign, the lower-ranking Imperial was there to deliver a message to the Moffs, but now, however… whether or not _any_ of them were in the right state to receive any messages was rather dubious…

A drunken voice hiccupped loudly and got everyone's attention, garbling, "Hear ye, Hear ye!"

Spinning dizzily on one heel was Grand Moff Tarkin, one arm held out for balance and the other holding his chalice of Bakuran wine way up high as though it were a torch.

"Yeah, we hear you well enough, Tarkin," spat Madam Grand Admiral Olie. "Is that from your second or third vat of wine?"

Well, Piett had heard rumors about Tarkin having a certain fondness for Bakuran wine… perhaps this settled the question, then?

Tarkin's eyes lit up with insane, drunken joy as he focused on her. "Bekme Olie my dear…" he hiccupped, then belching so loudly that Piett could have sworn he heard something in the room shake a little. "So wonderful that you're now here, for I have something to say which I want _all_ to hear…"

"Hey, Tarkin, you're a know it and didn't even poet…" another Grand Moff giggled drunkenly before passing out on the floor. Piett snorted and rolled his eyes at that mangled poetic joke.

Bowing ridiculously like some limp puppet, Tarkin said, "Madam Grand Admiral Bekme Olie… will you marry me, be my lovely wife, wait for me every night so we can come home and dance in bed because you and I are wed?"

Madam Olie gasped before balling up her fist, reaching way back, and exerting it right into Tarkin's face. The impact of her fist against his face was heard loudly enough throughout the room; Tarkin collapsed in a heap, his chalice sailing up in an arc, and a moment later, just as Tarkin was lifting his head up off the floor, the chalice came back down and hit him on the head.

Madam Olie smirked as the other Moffs burst out laughing at the scene; a moment later, they all silenced themselves as she whirled on them, silently challenging the rest of them to insult her or laugh at her. With her back turned to Piett, the young Imperial officer wisely used this opportunity to clamp down on the laughter threatening to burst out of him.

"What is the meaning of all this?" a booming bass voice thundered, followed by measured, labored breathing.

Darth Vader stood on the threshold, like some sort of walking black hole, sucking all the life, sound and movement out of the room. With his dark, sheathed gaze, he surveyed the room and quickly surmised what had happened. "I see…" he hissed.

Nearly everyone gulped nervously; if being questioned by Darth Vader wasn't a highly sobering experience, then what was? "If this is what happens when Grand Moffs and Grand Admirals are allowed certain privileges, then perhaps I should have those privileges taken away or those said officers stripped of their ranks… _permanently_." He paused for a moment, allowing this to sink in.

Even the most inebriated officer present understood that well enough. Seeing that he got his message across, the turned, but then paused. Looking over his shoulder to the slumped Tarkin, he made a simple gesture of his hand; Tarkin was thrown up in the air a few feet and crashed back down, rudely jolting him back to consciousness.

With that, Vader took his leave. _"Disgusting…"_ he muttered just loudly enough for them all to hear.

As soon as he was safely far away enough, Piett relaxed. Stars, he was still alive! But with Darth Vader in charge, you never knew just _when_ your time was up.

_Stars, I hope I don't have to put up with Lord Vader when I become Admiral, let alone Captain…_ Piett thought to himself. Little did he know that he would get his wish – only to be more careful what he had wished for when that happened.

**FIN**

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A/N: So, how was this, for my first _Star Wars_ fanfic? 

I have more to come, so stay tuned! _–Quillian_


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